The Dead And The Dying
by Volume-Of-A-book
Summary: You wanted a sequel to 'The Story Of The Fourth Irregular', here it is. Rated Kplus just in case.- Please Review
1. Prologue

_**The Dead And The Dying**_

**By Bowen Cates**

_Dedicated to VHunter07_

Don't cry

I know you're scared of what will happen to me when I die

Don't worry

I'm not in any hurry yet to meet the sky

Have a little faith in me

And I will see you through the pain

In this world there's so much misery

It feels just like we're crying in the rain

**_

* * *

_**

**_Prologue_**

**Sarah:**

I remember when I was eleven and first gazing into those wonderful, stern eyes; eyes full of understanding and fear, pain and knowledge, hope and courage, eyes as unseeing as an impulse; but as observant as the lens of a magnifying glass.

I never thought at that moment that I would grow to care this much about Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I never thought it mattered anyway.

But now here I am, scarcely more than a girl, watching as my life slowly drains out of me, most of it was not a good life. It had very few of those moments which conceal the better parts of the scruples. But it had him in it at least, and for a short time I was happy.

The dying may slip away with a smile on her face, all the time mourning the pain of a man already long dead from the slow erosion of the centuries.

He was the first one to call me Sarah without malice or venom in so many years. I loved him for that.

I love him still, my brother, my family.

My friend.


	2. Chapter 1: Dreamer

**_Chapter 1: Dreamer_**

_In your dreams the world was blue, but now you've wakened to another hue._

**Sarah:**

The morning of August third 2105 began dark and foreboding, a damp chill clung desperately to the air and drunken teenagers streaked past the domed bay window in their hover cars, heavy metal blaring, their headlights a solitary demon in the velvet blackness of the outside world.

But I felt very little of the atmosphere outside, from my hiding place in the cozy sitting room of 221B Baker Street. As I slid down from the worn old armchair in which in which I had been dozing, snuggled up against the weary figure of a tall, bony and exceedingly pale, sandy haired Victorian gentleman. Who was, at present, shifting uneasily beneath the heavy afghan I had pulled over us the previous evening under the watchful eye of Doctor Watson, our friendly compudroid companion.

Sherlock Holmes moaned inwardly, as the blanket slid selfishly away from his shoulders, I reached out and tucked it in around him more securely, accidently adding the sleeve of my pajama's, three sizes too big, to my efforts, and having to pull it out again, holding my breath so as not to wake my friend.

The lights were off in the wide room, but as I peered into the nooks and crannies around me, I could easily make out the companionable silhouettes of the empty fireplace, the desks, and the various lamps and picture frames, which adorned the walls.

Tip-toeing over to the computer, I activated it with the push of a button and glanced at the illuminated digits of the long screen in front of me. The time was 6:04 AM, I rubbed my eyes, turning away, and when I looked up, I could just see my face in the glass of one of the pictures that was reflecting the light of the machine. It was as though I were in a very old photograph, the kind a brown tinge characterizes. Although with a little imagination, one could easily put all my colours in their places.

My long, black hair was in scruffy ringlets. I had a bad case of bed-head from my sleeping place, my pajamas were a cream colour, and were rolled up at both the arms and legs so that I resembled some kind of fur-cuffed Russian toddler. My eyes, as black as my hair, save for a gray ring around the outside, were pensive and observant. I smiled, as one might at a camera lens, and for lack of a better amusement, rotated my reflection, taking note of the angles of my twelve year old body, as an appraiser might do for a slightly dubious antique.

Every morning now, since I had first moved in with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, I had woken up at, or around six O'clock. I wasn't sure why, but I didn't mind it. It gave me a chance to check on Holmes. For despite the reasonable gap of time that resided imperturbably between our capture, release and subsequent return to normal life after we had been kidnapped by Moriarty and his gang of thugs, my friend had not yet escaped the memory of his ordeals, namely, the fear his temporary blindness had caused him.

He had handled it extraordinarily well at the time, but I had seen the helplessness in those dead eyes of his, we both knew how easily Moriarty had caused the damage. We both knew it could be inflicted again at any time, for any number of reasons and in any number of circumstances but perhaps not be so easily repaired.

With a sigh, I left the detective in his chair, after putting my hand across his forehead briefly, to make certain that his lately overly strenuous efforts had not left any dangerous marks upon their host, and climbed the steps to the above bedroom, in which Watson was no doubt just finishing his recharge cycle.

It was almost 6:15 now, and as a matter of habit, the two of us would make breakfast together before Holmes set out for the yard. At present, he was in the middle of a case involving government security, and so Watson and I were on the lookout for most of his needs, things like food, rest and reminders not to lose his temper with innocent and unsuspecting yard employees.

Watson and I usually followed Holmes wherever he went, I wasn't allowed to know the inner details of the case like the compudroid was, The Hovernment did not seem to recognize such distinctions as 'Baker Street Irregular', but as long as I was with Holmes, I didn't really care either way.

I knocked on the thick oak door and a warm voice chimed out "One moment." before the eerie creek of the hinges was followed by the eslasto-masked face of the Doctor I had come to beckon down the stairs. I smiled at him, and he returned the expression as we made our way to the sitting room, past the dozing detective, and into the kitchen.

The moment the door was closed and the lights were turned on, I covered my eyes, but they adjusted quickly and within barely a moment, I was able to glace around in silent content at the highly polished metal surfaces (nearly as shiny as their caretaker), appliances and the variety of modern and Victorian dinnerware, stacked tidily on shelves and in glass front display cases.

With a flourish, Watson swiped his apron (a peculiar pink thing that must have belonged to their housekeeper at some point.) and tied it around his waist, his vivid brown eyes lighting upon my eager face. "Well Sarah," he inquired, with a slightly tired grin "what shall we make this morning?" I knew his fatigue wasn't directed at me, or the hour, but rather at the thought of what Holmes would no doubt get himself into during the course of the next twenty four hours, I grimaced in sympathy, and indicated the large cupboard a few feet above my head that I knew held the ingredients for waffles.

"Again?" He raised an eyebrow, and when I nodded, he chuckled happily "well, I suppose both you and Holmes could use the extra weight." I winced. It was a slightly embarrassing fact that I was, at present, eating my two friends out of house and home, and although they had both explained to me that they could think of no better reason to end up on the streets living in a couple of boxes, I myself would prefer that I wasn't so hungry all the time. Watson had told me that it was because I was in the middle of a growth spurt, and that in reality, it was no burden financially or in any other capacity.

When I had written back that it was actually because I had two stomachs, and used up most of my energy changing shape by the glow of the full moon, he had grinned and pulled me up on his shoulders, spinning until I was sick from the motion and laughing too hard.

These were strange memories to me, for in my old life I had seldom had any of the usual experiences one associates with childhood. But I adjusted to them gladly and with verbatim.

After the ingredients were mixed, the waffle iron hot, and the dishes washed, dried, and put away, I traipsed down the famous seventeen steps from the sitting room, again holding my breath as I slipped past the Holmes, and entered my own large bedroom. It had once belonged to Mrs. Hudson, the landlady and housekeeper of Baker Street, and it was her beautiful, sturdy, but simple taste that furnished it, and gave the walls that soft green colour where you could see them. For, I had of course, added some of my own touches.

All four walls were coated in pictures I'd drawn of every imaginable kind of person, both living, dead, fictional and the contrary. Coloured with pencils, paints, markers or digital tools, the end product of the latter labours having been printed out from the computer. My bed, a very spacious twin size, was clothed in quilt, sheets and pillow cases all representative of my favorite comic book hero. My bedding was also unique because, unable to find a complete set representitive of this particular charactor, Watson and I had ended up getting three used ones, so each type of article was different in artwork and coloring. The Question gazed up at the ceiling in all his depictions, faceless and spectacular in his coat and fedora, a police spotlight singling him out against the bricks of the city behind him, and blowing the shadows up like black hot air balloons suspending him at the very edge of reality.

I had no closet, a large cedar wardrobe dominated one corner of my room, towering above all else. There were more pictures on the doors, inside were three pairs of black jeans, and one pair of shorts of the same material, which _had_ been jeans before Holmes had lit my knees on fire during a chemical experiment, resulting in my decision to make myself a pair of cut-offs. I had five shirts, all of them, though varying in style and sleeve length, were the same colour, the tint of a good red wine which Holmes insisted on calling 'Bergandy'. A simple wooden hairbrush, two drawers containing underwear, training bra's and socks and a few spare clothing hangers, where the only other objects present in the space.

I had never liked skirts or dresses, and so this limited variety appealed to me very much. This way, if my trousers got dirty it wouldn't show, and if I bled on my shirt the same lack of effect would be produced. You may call it morbid, but if you'd lived on the streets for as long as I had, and come to them in the same way, you would probably exhibit a similar train of thought.

There was a green carpet, which fit nicely with the walls and the dark tang of the portion of wood floor it didn't cover. Next to the bed there was a nightstand, a simple table with no draws, and on the opposite wall to the wardrobe was a shelf of books of every imaginable title and subject. Everything from comic books to match my bed, to studies of rare fungus and several of Holmes' monographs. I had of course, many of his adventures there as well. The last thing of interest in my room is a desk in the corner by the door, on it is a large organizer with many compartments, each containing either wire, beads, or the tools to manipulate both.

It was discovered upon my introduction into the household that I have a remarkable dexterity with my hands, and so Watson came home early from a case one day, dragging with him boxes full of interesting art supplies. I don't wear jewelry often, but when I do it's my own, I can create everything from earrings to anklets, hair pins to necklaces. Holmes says my hands were made to please me, But when I take into account the fact that my mouth was not, I think it's a pretty fair allowance for my brain to make.

Also on the desk is a pile of paper, with a wooden box of all my drawing supplies next to it. A wooden chair the same colour as the floor, wardrobe and desk sits in front of the latter. A lamp rests on top of the organizer.

I spend a lot of time in my room, experimenting and progressing with my artistic temperament in hopes of finding some way to support myself so that I can pay for some of the expenses I will incur when I finally figure out what my future is going to be. I do not feel rushed, I'm enjoying my time in this wonderful place with it's wonderful occupants, So it is only in the evening that I hide away. On average, I spend the greatest portion of my time following Holmes and Watson about.

I dressed myself, and combed out my hair, having showered the previous evening, and went back up to the sitting room to help Watson with setting the three places at the table (he couldn't eat, but I always insisted he have his own place setting anyway). He shooed me away, however, recruiting me instead to go wake Holmes up so he could eat. That was the rule these days, we never woke the detective unless it was for some kind of nourishment. We spend the rest of the time trying to _get_ him to sleep, so it was not something we took lightly.

I went over to him, and shook him gently, my hand on his shoulder. He groaned, and his head lulled to one side. I shook him again. When he did not react at all, I fell to my secret weapon.

As carefully as I could, I walked around to the back of his chair and put my mouth right next to his ear, making one of the few sounds I could, it was this sound that never failed to wake my friend. Slowly, I began to hiss through my teeth. To someone who was half asleep, it sounded a lot like a snake. With Holmes' experience with the Speckled Band, it was a signal that immediately jolted him out of any kind of drowse. I had discovered this a while ago, when I had been trying to explain to Watson which of the adventures I'd been reading, by imitating it's core subject and Holmes had been asleep in the next room much the same as he was now. He had bolted from his chair, eyes wide, and then turned upon the two of us, who had been staring quite blatantly, and as though unable to recall the source of his agitation, enquired sheepishly as to what had woken him.

I had never told him what exactly it had been, and had no plans to, for as far as I knew, he simply awoke with no memory of what it was that had disturbed him. And he did so now, eyes opening suddenly, as I went back to the front of his chair, smiling coyly at him. He looked dreadful, twice as bad as he had the day before. But a shower and breakfast would soon set him right. "Good morning Sarah." he sighed, blinking, and rising quickly to his feet, as the afghan fell to the floor in a rumpled heap "I observe that you have again neglected to shut down the computer after you have used it." I grimaced, remembering my lack of courtesy, but he only grinned. "Actually, I need to make use of it anyway, you've saved me the bother of waiting for it to warm up." I smiled widely, pleased that he was not annoyed, though he seldom was when it came to me, and slipping my hand through his, I guided him towards the table, pulling his chair out for him, and putting on my best pleading expression in order to insure that he actually sat in it.

I had noticed that I was the only person who dared exhibit this particular sign of affection, that of holding his hand, on a daily basis. No one else in our circle would dare to try, let alone count on being allowed to continue in the effort once contact had been established. Part of me believed it was because of Holmes' and my previous method of communication, where I had been obliged to trace the letters of the alphabet into his palm, that allowed for this easy companionship. The other half, the more hopeful one, still held to the distant dream that perhaps it was because Holmes cared enough about me that his brotherly instincts took more precedence over societal the barriers.

There were things I could get away with that even I had been surprised at, like sitting beside him in his chair, or lying my head against his knee when I was at work at a jig-saw puzzle on the hearth rug. He used to flinch or pull away at the contact, but over time he had grown accustomed to it, even comfortable with it. And I was glad.

Breakfast passed without incident, and afterward the detective slipped into his bedroom to freshen up while I helped Watson with the last few dishes and wiped off the table. When he joined us once more a few minutes later, dressed in one of his nicer suits, a light, almost white one not unlike the tint of the pajama's I had been wearing earlier, and a black tie around his neck of the kind that are about as thick as a ribbon and cross over once at the base of the clavicles, I ran for my shoes, a simple pair of dark brown leather boots that I could pull on at the drop of a hat, as my two companions donned their respective head gear, Watson also pulling on his coat. (Holmes and I knew from experience that the day would be far too warm later to tolerate the extra layer ourselves). I shot between them as we stepped from the aprartment and slipped my hand back into Holmes', he looked down at me in startlement, but smiled after a moment, and squeezed my fingers reassuringly in his.

The moment seemed so perfect, the day was going to be sunny and bright, the work involved, and the company ideal, as we were going to stop at Deidre's house to pick up the other irregulars for some last minute surveillance work Holmes needed us to do. I was so elated at the prospect before me that as Watson reached out for the door handle in preperation to meet the waiting throng of humanity, I did not even entertain the possibility that my entire existence was about to go horribly wrong.

I had never thought to see her again, let alone standing before us on the front step, her hand raised collectedly, as though just about to knock.

But as I looked into the eyes of my mother, I knew my fairy-tale world had come to an end.


	3. Chapter 2: Nightmare

_**Chapter 2: Nightmare**_

_A stinging sweat, a waking scream_

_Will cut away the room_

_And leave you there suspended in_

_A cozy nest of gloom_

**Holmes:**

In most situations, I have found that my mind is liable to define the nature of a given predicament faster than most. Yet, before I had even registered the significance of the personage standing before me in a most worrisome manner, I felt my hand being squeezed tightly. There was a shift in the proximity of the child next to me as she backed away, slipping behind me, and tugging at my arm to indicate her uneasiness. A vain attempt at leading me back up the seventeen steps to our Baker Street rooms as a sort of protective measure. I was, of course, not about to allow this, but held my place, and studied our visitor with thorough yet conservative interest.

She was young, not of an age greater than thirty eight, with golden blonde hair that fell in light ringlets down her slender shoulders. Her features were even and I imagine they would be considered pleasing to the majority of earth's populace. Her eyes were large, grey and fastidious, flicking from myself to Rowland and then to Watson, narrowing a little more with each scrupulous glance.

These were not characteristics I would usually take note of on their own, but in this instance they were of supreme interest.

The lady's clothing was of rich material and her stately appearance was consistent with someone of great wealth. Her bearing, assured and strict, was that of one used to getting her way in all things. She was not accustomed to labour of any physical kind, as her carefully manicured nails and obviously soft hands made evident, and yet her shrewdness and physical fitness were indicators of discipline.

Add these surface deductions to the many others which I was able to make, and compare her physical attributes to those of the young lady tugging at my sleeve, and it was not a difficult leap to say that Sarah Leanne Rowlands was at present, face to face with her biological mother, the woman who had assisted in the abuse and destruction of a young and helpless life.

I felt my own hand grasp quickly around the wrist of the child, shoving her further behind me, it only occurred to me after I had done so that I was behaving almost...it was only logical, of course, after all, Sarah had saved my life, I owed her a debt. This was no doubt the reason behind what others may mistake for outward affection.

The sunlight was glaring through the lingering fog, and gushing past the occupant of the doorway into my eyes, aside from being uncomfortable, this affect also seemed to give our guest a disembodied appearance, like the sinister ghost from the past that she was.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" purred the lady, she was obviously a native of England, and she spoke in a sweet and mischievous voice. I was instantly aware of a disconcerting clenching sensation in my gut. "My name is-"

I interrupted her: "Roxanne Alicia Rowlands, wife of Alexander Christophe Rowlands, former parent of Sarah Leanne Rowlands."

Her eyes grew wide, but then narrowed quickly once more; She clenched her hands, digging her nails into her palms to a nearly imperceptible degree. Sarah squeezed my own hand tighter.

"Former?" Mrs. Rowlands' tone was soft, venomous. Each sound carving the air as a carpenter might a block of wood.

"Pray correct me if I am mistaken, but last I reviewed the law, it was customary to remove custody of a child from their parent when the latter was a party to slashing open the former's flesh with a landscaping utensil."

I did not say any more, though I admit I wished too. It is far more intimidating to leave your adversary knowing there is more you could say, then to use up all your cards and have to pretend the contrary.

Her face suddenly lost all of the beauty it may have possessed, as the soft smile turned to an angry frown; thinning volumes red lips, pursing the large eyes, and wrinkling the white skin.

She reached her long, slender arm out and beckoned to the Sarah, who wrapped both hers arms around my waist from behind, securing herself to me rather like an oyster to a rock when the riptide is upon it. I felt her shake her head, and Watson, who had, out of respect for me, remained silent for the last few moments, stepped up to my right side, adding further support to our barricade.

The lady's face assumed an amused expression once again. "Come now dear." She nearly sang "you know how upset your father becomes when you don't do as you're asked." The arms around my waist gripped tighter and I struggled for a moment to breathe properly.

Mrs. Rowlands stopped for a moment and studied this predicament, the way Watson edged closer still to our charge, my whole attitude as well, was one of stern non-compliance. Her smile broadened. "We wouldn't want anything…unhappy to befall Mr. Holmes, now would we?"

Sarah is, overall, a very sweet and loving girl, fiercely loyal to everyone who is of importance to her; indeed, I have never been treated so tenderly and protectively by anyone, not even Watson, as there are lines he will not cross due to my own emotional barriers, indications of preference which Sarah seems deliberately blind to (I am not certain whether this is desirable or not). And yet, I have observed a certain trend in her behaviour towards violence at times, namely, a tendency to leap out at any character who may represent a threat to her circle of friends.

With her nails unsheathed and a glowering fire in her black eyes, she will lunge brashly upon the unsuspecting ruffian. It is quite a frightening thing, and happens so quickly that the poor soul who made the error of saying too much, ends up without a recognisable face before either myself or another adult is able to lay hand upon the her.

I would have thought myself imagining things if I were not myself, but as it is, there are indications that this behaviour increases in intensity whenever it is in direct connection with my person. So it was with previous experience that I latched my fingers more tightly around Sarah's hands as her arms released me, as held her back with all my not inconsiderable strength.

"I thank you for your concern madam" I said loudly, more to Sarah than to our visitor "However, I assure you, I am quite capable of looking after myself."

The smile remained affixed to the face, Watson's voice echoed my own "If you will excuse us, Mrs. Rowlands, we must be on our way, we have a rather pressing appointment and are already late." His tone, I noticed, was careful, his face was resolute. Though I could not see it from where I stood, I knew his eyebrows had been drawn into a determined glower.

"Oh, by all means." She stepped out of the doorway, "I will stop by again another time."

Without another word, she turned and walked with dainty precision off the front step and across the street, whereupon she climbed into a black hover limousine that I had noticed when she'd first attempted to introduce herself to me. Her blue suit and skirt, and matching high-healed shoes adding to the surrealism of the picture as the car door slammed, and she was gone.

I felt Sarah slump behind me, and turned now to look at Watson, I felt the child, her hands once again round my waist, move with me, so that she was still behind my back. "Watson" I said, formally, to indicate my seriousness "contact Lestrade and the irregulars, they are to come to Baker Street at once, tell them as little as possible via video, I have no doubt our line is being monitored. When you are finished, please assist me in searching the house for eavesdropping devices. Sarah and I are going to have a little chat after which I shall be right with you."

I reached down, and scooped the child uncharacteristically into my arms, not entirely certain of what I was doing, and yet I had a vague memory of Mycroft enacting a similarly domestic scene involving myself in my early youth.

I took her upstairs, Watson behind me, as Sarah wept silently into my shoulder, and held onto me tightly, as though she were afraid I would be taken right out from under her. I sat down in my armchair, and kept her against my shoulder, sitting her on my lap. "There, now." I soothed, awkwardly "no harm will come to you, I give you my word." She grabbed my hand "ITS NOT ME IM WORRIED ABOUT." She explained, hurriedly.

Watson and I will set everything right" I assured her, "you needn't worry."

"YOU DONT UNDERSTAND THEYRE DANGEROUS."

Looking back, I am unable to recall when I first started calling her Sarah, all I knew was, one day it had slipped out, and she had not seemed to mind.

"Believe me Sarah, I do understand, I have a file devoted solely to the endeavours of Mr. and Mrs. Rowlands. I realize that their criminal tendencies are not to be taken lightly, but you must understand that I am more experienced in these matters than Mr. Colehurst, I am far less likely to disappear."

At the mention of the name, Sarah's tears grew more vigorous, and I instantly regretted using it. She and I had worked for a good month to establish a dialogue with the old gardener with regards to the past injustices they had both suffered, and two days before the scheduled meeting, he had died under mysterious circumstances, the Rowlands' had paid the funeral expenses and given a substantial grant to his children, the connection was obvious, and yet they received positive publicity as a result. Sarah had been despondent for days.

I felt my palm tickle familiarly. "THEYLL TRY TO TAKE ME FIRST IF THEY CANT. THEN THEYLL KILL YOU." With was stated with great intensity, her face red with crying and her eyes desperate. I could hear Watson on the video phone behind me, making arrangements, and then a repetitive beeping noise as be began searching the inner structure of our apartment for any unwelcome devices.

"I will be fine." I promised, not certain whether I was lying or not, but hopefully I appeared confident. "And no one will take you away from…"

The words had simply come out of my mouth without premeditation, no doubt a result of my lack of sleep over the past few months, ever since that little incident during which I lost my sight for a short time I will admit that I have not been quite myself, temporary though it was, it was still an inconvenience. That was it, certainly, all I needed was stronger discipline, this new century was making me soft.

And yet as I looked into the troubled, terrified face of the girl situated on my knee, I remembered her as the signs she had imprinted into my hands, somewhat akin to an invisible tattoo, as she had endlessly given me everything her starved, mistreated and neglected soul had to offer, asking nothing in return.

Watson had told me how she had defended me when I had finally surrendered, against my will, to unconsciousness, how she had stayed with me in the police cruiser and waited for me at the hospital.

I sighed, shrugged off thoughts of that dreaded institution before they seeped into my brain, and to my own disbelief, I let my lips form my earlier thought, completing an irrevocable sentence. "No one will take my…sister from me." For that was the relationship, I knew, though how I don't know, that of an older brother to a younger sister. I'd never had one before, a female sibling to care for, and fend suitors off from, and I found myself loathed to entertain even the idea of parting with the experience.

Sarah burrowed deeper into my shoulder in response, and I heard her sniffling. Every soul has one fear they fear above all others, and while they may be brave when opposing any other obstacle, there is always left that isolated indescribable terror that cannot be faced, I had survived mine but Sarah, sweet, incorrigible Sarah, was just now in the very middle of hers.


End file.
